


Thursday (with More Food)

by the_rat_wins



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Food as a Metaphor for Love, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Prison, Rebuilding, Thanksgiving, but not very grim either, going for the hopeful middle road here, not very fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not going,” Mickey says on Thursday morning.<br/>Ian doesn’t say “I really need you there.”<br/>He doesn’t say “You can’t be mad at them forever.”<br/>He doesn’t say “They never did anything to you that I didn’t do worse.”<br/>He says, “I’ll bring you back some pie.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thursday (with More Food)

“I’m not going,” Mickey says on Thursday morning.

Ian doesn’t say “I really need you there.”

He doesn’t say “You can’t be mad at them forever.”

He doesn’t say “They never did anything to you that I didn’t do worse.”

He says, “I’ll bring you back some pie.” Then he kisses the side of Mickey’s head, and gets up to get ready.

After Ian leaves, the house is quiet. Svetlana and Yev are at their place, with her new girlfriend. Mickey’s not sure how much either of them know about Thanksgiving, but hell, it’s still probably going to be better than anything him and Ian could have managed. Anyway, Yev’s spent the last five Thanksgivings and Christmases and whatever the fuck else with his mom, so this is better.

When they were kids, Mandy was always the one who bought or stole a turkey, made some boxed mashed potatoes, threw a can opener at Mickey’s head and told him to _put the fucking cranberry sauce in a bowl, Christ, Mickey, it’s not brain surgery._

This is the first year he’s done a Thanksgiving without her. Not that he’s doing it. But whatever.

Turkey day was kind of a big deal in the joint—one of the few holidays that got any kind of recognition from the administration—but the food was still nasty as shit.

He stares at the ceiling for a while, the pale light on the stained and cracked white paint. He wants a beer, pretty bad. He could have one. No one here to tell him no. Anyway, Ian doesn’t really care if he does. It was Mickey’s bright idea to give it up out of some kind of solidarity or whatever. He has a quarter bottle of Jack under the bed somewhere, too. “Break glass in case of emergency” kind of thing.

He closes his eyes, lets the urge fill him up. But he doesn’t fucking move. Just lies there with his eyes closed, breathing.

After a while, he rolls over and smushes his face into Ian’s pillow, then breathes in and out a few times.

Mickey wonders if Fiona’s tried to push any of her coworkers’ brothers on Ian yet. Nice, college-educated guys without records. And with cars that are actually running right now, unlike theirs. His. Whatever. He breathes in and out. Fuck Fiona. Fuck those guys.

Don’t fuck those guys. Christ, Ian, just don’t. Please. I can’t—

_It’s not like that anymore, Mickey. It’s not. I promise._

Fuck this. He’s going for a walk. He needs a new pack of smokes anyway. Maybe some chips or something. A bottle of Coke.

Everything near them is closed. Obviously. Everyone’s home with their families. The urge to peek in windows to stare at all the fucking Norman Rockwell Thanksgivings is pretty strong, but he restrains himself. Probably a parole violation. Throwing a brick through the window of the first smiling family he finds would be fucking hilarious, though. He can just picture it: turkey, mashed potatoes, a pumpkin pie, and right in the middle, a brick and a ton of broken glass. It’d be fucking artistic.

The fresh air feels good on his face, a little cold, just enough to wake him up. He passes by the park on the corner, and there’s a group of black kids playing basketball. School off on a Thursday, they must be amped. On a park bench outside the basketball court, a white woman is helping her snotty-nosed toddler take a couple of wobbling steps. The kid tips over and starts crying.

Mickey’s phone buzzes, and he stops, leaning against the chain-link fence and pulling it out. A text and a picture from Svetlana. Probably too much to hope it’s just her saying Happy Thanksgiving.

_You, me, and orange boy,_ she says. The picture is of three hand turkeys: blue, brown, and red. The blue one has black scribbles on the fingers.

_The fuck is that scribbly shit,_ he replies.

_Tried to write fuck to match your hand. Teacher did not approve._

Mickey snorts. That’s his kid, all right. Fucking smart.

_Nice,_ he says. _Have fun with the new chick. Tell him hey for me._

_Have nice time with orange boy’s crazy family,_ she says.

He shakes his head, and sticks his phone back in his pocket, heading for an empty bench at the far end of the park. It’s weird that he didn’t go, probably. But he doesn’t really give a fuck anymore. He’s done his time. Literally. He’s not torturing himself with the Gallaghers on top of it, just to satisfy some bullshit need to play nice a couple days a year.

Mickey knows what matters now. They’ve fought everything for it. Even each other sometimes. So, fuck the Gallaghers. Fuck what they think of him, of them, of any of it. He doesn’t care.

He sits down on the bench and wishes he had a smoke.

After a few minutes of watching his breath in the cold air, he sees two hipster girls walk by. They’re both carrying too many paper bags, and they can’t agree on what the right address is. They don’t look like smokers, and they also look like they’ll deck him with their veggie loaf or whatever if he tries to bum a cigarette and a light off them.

Mickey takes his phone back out, and his finger hovers over Mandy’s number for a while. He wonders if she made boxed mashed potatoes for whoever she’s eating with this year. They don’t talk a lot anymore.

_Happy thx giving, bitch,_ he finally types.

The “ . . .” shows up right away, which shocks the hell out of him for some reason. That she’s somehow so close, when she feels a million miles away.

The dots disappear, and then the answer pops up. An emoji of a middle finger.

He’s not sure for a second—if she actually wanted to tell him to fuck off, wouldn’t she just ignore it? Or actually just say _fuck off_?

_Same to you, prick,_ she says after another second, and it’s stupid, but something in him relaxes, looking at the words.

He tucks his phone away again, throws another look at the kids playing basketball. Then he gets up and heads for home.

The shower’s running when he gets inside, and the radiators have finally kicked in. He takes off his coat and his boots, drops them by the door. They should probably screw in some hooks or something. The guy who rented it to them said something about not fucking up the walls, but Mickey’s willing to take the risk. Security deposit’s as good as gone anyway, he figures.

Anyway, he’s not planning on moving. This is their place. If he wants some hooks in the wall, he’s damn well gonna put them there. Hell, if the hardware store was open, he’d go get them right now.

The water shuts off, and Ian comes out of the bathroom, towel around his waist. “The heat’s on. It’s a Thanksgiving miracle.” He sees Mickey standing, staring at the wall. “What’s wrong?”

“We need some hooks,” Mickey says. “For coats and shit. It’s stupid, throwing our shit on the floor.”

Ian laughs, walking to the bedroom. “OK, Martha Stewart. We’ll get some hooks. Hey, c’mon, don’t you want your pie?”

Mickey frowns. “Wanting to make the place fucking livable ain’t being Martha Stewart.”

Ian stops, turns around. “I know, Mick. I was just—it was just a joke.”

They have these now. These—stutters. Shit was broken. So broken. And there’s still cracks. Glued back together. Never gonna be quite what it was before. It should have been funny. It would have been, before.

Mickey stands there, still staring at the stupid, blurry wall. He’s breathing hard. Ian’s behind him, and all he wants . . . all he fucking wants . . .

Ian’s fingers brush his wrist, lightly. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just a touch.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Mickey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”

Mickey closes his eyes. He’s tired of hearing Ian apologize. He’s tired of wanting the apologies. He’s just tired.

But he’s here. They’re together.

It’s enough.

“What kind of pie?” he says, after a second.

Ian strokes his arm, slowly. Steps a little closer behind him. Wraps his other arm around Mickey’s waist, pulls him in. He’s warm from the shower. Smells so good. Mickey tips his head back. It was hard to relax, at first. But it’s getting better. They’re getting better.

Ian nuzzles behind his ear. “You even have to ask?”

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Don’t think you’re getting any, by the way. That’s my fucking pie, man.”

“Not even a bite?” Ian says. He rocks them from side to side, a little sway.

“Nope. Not even one,” Mickey says, reaching down and covering Ian’s fingers with his own. He squeezes Ian’s hand for a second. “All right, go put some clothes on.”

“Sure about that?” Ian says, stroking Mickey’s thumb with his own.

“If you’re asking me to pick between you and pumpkin pie, I’ve got some bad news for you, champ,” Mickey says. Ian laughs, and nuzzles him again.

“Fair enough.” He lets go and walks into the bedroom, dropping the towel as he goes.

Yeah, Mickey looks. Sue him.

“Got you a new pack, saw you were out,” Ian calls as Mickey heads into the kitchen. The slice of pie is on a plate, with a fork lying on the table on one side and Mickey’s cigarettes on the other. There’s a glob of half-melted Cool Whip on top. _Now who’s Martha fucking Stewart?_

Mickey pulls out a chair and sits at the table. Looks at the crap they have piled up—junk mail, the electric bill, a crumpled pharmacy bag, an action figure with a missing arm that Yev left the last time he came to visit.

“Thanks,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up three days late with Thanksgiving fic*
> 
> Considering the timing, I'm sorry this isn't just straight fluff. But I'm writing as a way to get my feelings out at the moment (sigh), so, you know, it is what it is! <3


End file.
